


In The Dead Of The Night

by Cynaera (LFN_Archivist)



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 16:01:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16432517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFN_Archivist/pseuds/Cynaera
Summary: This story was originally posted to the LFN Storyboard Archives by Cynaera, who passed away in 2012.





	In The Dead Of The Night

It was always the same - when Michael did manage to sleep for more than two or three hours at a stretch, he had the nightmares. They varied in content from night to night, but the characters were constant - Simone, his son, Operations, Mad'laine, Walter, Birkoff. And lately, Nikita was a new addition to his dark carnival of souls. 

He almost couldn't remember what he'd been like before Section. - he'd buried his true nature so deeply as a matter of self-preservation that it was a struggle sometimes to find himself again. The moments when he could withdraw inside himself and re-acquaint himself with who he really was were few and precious. It seemed Section demanded more and more of him each day, and he honestly didn't know how much more of his life and breath he had left to give. 

He'd been guarded with Nikita - he'd had to be, because she represented danger to him. He knew she'd never deliberately kill him, but her words had wounded him deeply, more times than he'd ever let her know. He never blamed her for her reactions to his actions. She was a woman, tender despite her tough exterior and almost desperate need to be taken seriously. 

Michael couldn't even count the number of times Nikita's "intuition" had saved his life. He remembered the first mission of which she'd been a part, and how, even after she'd refused to shoot someone she'd viewed as an innocent, she'd remained fiercely defiant. He'd shouted at her to stand, hoping to startle her into some sort of submission, or at least repentance for her insubordination. Yet, she had stood slowly, almost insolently, completely unafraid of him, and he'd never experienced that reaction in Section. He'd dealt with many operatives in various stages of training - not one of them had dared to defy him. Nikita had faced his eyes with a fire all her own - he could see her past in her expression. She had told him, without words, that she'd seen hell and had walked through it laughing. 

He remembered, too, when she'd leveled her gun at him, her eyes gunmetal blue and absolutely cold. For the first time since he'd been recruited into Section, Michael had been afraid for his life. He'd spent two years in intensive training with her, and had thought he knew her better than even her mother had known her. But the look she'd had on her face, as she'd met his eyes and slowly, almost leisurely, aimed her gun at him, had sent a numbing chill through his body - it had been all he could do to remain still and unaffected. When the shot rang out, he'd flinched, expecting the pain that followed the penetration of a bullet. It hadn't come, and when realization finally set in, he turned back to see the victim of Nikita's first kill - one of VanVactor's flunkies. She'd killed, against all her instincts and integrity, to save his life. 

She didn't know what her act had meant to him - he hadn't been able to tell her what was churning inside him. The longer he waited to formulate the words, the harder it became to approach her with them, until finally, he gave it up. He knew one betrayal only led to another, and by the time they'd survived Red Cell's attack , Nikita was as far away from him as Mars. 

His own sorrow was buried inside, and it, too, was something he could never show her. He could never confess to her how much it had hurt him to have to mislead her for the Section's ends. He knew she wouldn't believe him - not after all the times he'd been forced by his allegiance to Section to play upon her emotions and her deepest convictions. He'd mentally and emotionally raped her time and time again, and forgiveness was not an option anymore... 

************ 

Michael sat up in bed and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying in vain to will away the ache behind his vision. He wanted Nikita to understand, somehow - wanted her to see the reasons behind his unwilling deceptions. But for the life of him, he couldn't formulate a plan. He was the best strategist and tactician Section One had, and yet he couldn't navigate a woman's heart. It was almost humorous, and if he hadn't been in such anguish he might have been able to laugh a little at the irony of it all. 

He knew sleep was lost, so he got up, his body aching from the rigors of the most recent mission. It hadn't been a particularly life-threatening assignment, but it had pushed him beyond his extremes and that in itself had stretched his extremes to a new limit. He was past punishing himself for the past - all he wanted now was to survive the present and hopefully, to have some kind of future which would be relatively free of the bleakness of Section's oppressive atmosphere. 

Michael realized that Nikita had given him that hope - she wore black on black only on missions. The rest of her life was pastel color, blue sky, laughter, and freedom within the constraints of Section policy. She always found ways to maintain her spirit, her defiance, and through her, Michael could live vicariously. It dawned on him, startlingly, that Nikita was the truly brave one. She was fearless in her integrity. He himself had compromised time and time again, sold his soul and his beliefs, and he'd told himself it was a just punishment for his crimes - for his neglect, for his foolishness, for his weaknesses. 

Now, as he sat naked on the edge of his bed, his heart pounding, Michael realized he'd been a coward. He'd risked death for the Section, sacrificed everything - yet he'd done it, not to save other lives, but to punish himself for things over which he'd had little, if any, control. He'd rationalized away his actions, acted the martyr, and assumed it would assuage his guilt and fear. 

Nikita had shattered the glass room into which he'd enclosed himself. She'd brought a rejuvenating, new outlook to him, had been the perfect breath of fresh air he'd needed to jar his memory of just who he'd been before things had gotten so out of control for him. He could never fault her feelings and reactions. He could never hate her or be impatient with her when she talked back to Operations or Mad'laine. He couldn't smother her vitality - it would be tantamount to killing himself, and he knew he wasn't ready to die yet - not these days... 

Michael went to his stereo in the dark and turned it on, the music playing softly. "Until The Light Shines Through" by the Devlins wafted through the air as Michael went back to his bed, slipped under the covers, and lay listening in the dark to the almost ethereal music. It had been playing in the background at a restaurant where he and Nikita had been stationed as surveillance operatives. She'd commented softly, "I love this song," even as her eyes had been scanning the room, searching for the person they'd been assigned to find and shadow. 

It had been a brief glimpse into her mind, and Michael made a mental note to learn more. He hadn't asked her about it, but later, after the mission had ended, he had directed Birkoff to replay the surveillance tapes and find out who the artist was. Birkhoff had pounced on the request, wanting something to stretch his skills further. It had taken awhile, but after a few days, interspersed with several missions, some briefings, and some mainframe upgrades, he had come up with the information Michael had wanted. 

Almost childlike in his pride, Birkhoff had handed the CD to Michael. "This is it," he'd said, somewhat unnecessarily, hoping for acknowledgement, but not really expecting it. 

Michael had taken the CD from him almost tenderly, seeing Nikita's dreamy, faraway gaze as she'd listened to the music. It was a part of her, like the crazy neon lights and the wire sculptures, the odd, almost spooky way she had of unnerving him just by being herself. Without realizing it, Michael had said reverently, "Thank you, Birkhoff." 

Birkhoff had double-taked at Michael's unexpected show of gentleness, staring at him in something close to disbelief, but Michael had already left, the CD securely in his hand. 

It hadn't left his CD player at home. Michael would never have suspected he liked this type of music, but the more he listened to it, the more it seeped into his blood and bones. It brought him close to Nikita in a way she would never have imagined. He felt, sometimes, like a frightened child, and the music was a security blanket, or a mother's warm arms around him. 

Even when she was far away from him, Michael felt Nikita near him - in his actions, his thoughts, and his desires. More often, he found himself seeing situations through her eyes, feeling emotions through her heart and kidneys. This new insight was both a strength and a hindrance, and he could understand why Nikita was tormented by what she was forced to endure for Section. To do the job, she almost constantly had to put everything she held true in a dark, sheltered corner and ignore it until she had survived, debriefed, and entered her apartment alone. Michael suspected that once she was safe behind her front door, she went through an emotional meltdown that probably left her completely drained from crying, screaming, pounding the walls or knocking them down, or simply clutching a cherished item to her like a teddy bear and rocking back and forth soothingly until the storm passed. 

It hurt him to have this insight. He almost wished he could return to the sweet oblivion he'd once known, before he'd foolishly decided to delve into Nikita's psyche. He hadn't realized at the time that he would become so interconnected with her that he would have difficulty pulling himself away. He almost felt like her twin - like they had been born to the same parents at the same time and separated immediately afterward... 

All these thought-processes tugged Michael's focus away from his nightmares, which was a good thing. However, it was still only two-ten A. M., and he knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. For a moment, almost willfully defiant, he wished Nikita would knock on his door the way he often knocked on hers. She'd never asked him how he knew when she was awake and restless, and he'd never volunteered the information because he assumed she didn't really care. The one thing Michael knew he would never experience was Nikita's total surrender to him. Even if he managed to win her trust enough to take her body in an act of passion, he was certain he would never completely possess her. She was like a wild animal - he could coax her with soft words, cautious actions, and enticing gifts, but her heart would remain untamed and guarded, especially where it concerned him. 

A sense of despair washed over Michael, and he felt an entirely foreign urge to cave in to emotion and cry - another unforeseen by-blow from knowing Nikita, he realized almost wryly. Even mindful that no one would see him, Michael couldn't surrender to grief, pain, or useless histrionics. There was no place in his life for these feelings anymore and to survive the darkness of Section he would have to be much more careful about this leaning toward humanity - but the only way he could accomplish that feat would be to remove himself from Nikita's life altogether, and he knew he wasn't that strong... 

************ 

Michael lay there, watching the room gradually become lighter as the sun made a rare appearance in the winter sky. He rose then, pulled his robe around him, and walked to the window, staring out at the panorama. He'd never really seen it, not since he'd lost Simone, not since he'd lost his soul. Nikita had ignited a fire inside him that he'd thought had died - it was as if so many reactions and perceptions had sprung back to life. Suddenly he was assaulted with sensations - colors were brighter, pleas and tears were more poignant, music was more beautiful. Against his will, Michael was being forced to admit to a vitality and a joy he'd thought had been smothered beyond resurrection. 

He wanted to hate Nikita for slipping inside him and transforming him without her even being aware of it - but he couldn't. Deeper down, he was grateful for her presence in his life, for her slant on the human condition and the perspective it granted him, if only by osmosis. Part of him was terrified for her, filled with dread because her love of life could only cause her pain. At the worst, it would get her cancelled unless or until Operations realized that her allegiance to life was an asset to Section. She'd made friends within the ranks, and she would die before she betrayed even one of them - even if her actions led them to believe she was selling them out for her own selfish interests. That loyalty was the thread that kept Section functioning. Anarchy had not been considered in Section since Nikita had become an operative, and not because of fear, but because of loyalty. Nikita was not the only operative to demonstrate integrity, but she was certainly the most outspoken. 

Michael caught himself smiling a little, thinking about the times Nikita had fired off less than complimentary comments to Operations and even Mad'laine, in her defiant way, probably knowing she was dancing on a land mine but not caring. He thought about the times that he'd had to lie outrageously to Operations, to Mad'laine, to Walter and even to Birkhoff, just to keep Nikita alive. It had always been worth it, in his opinion, and he had no regrets about it. His lies had allowed Nikita to keep her independent spirit and the quality that was unique to her. He knew Operations wouldn't cancel him - to survive, he'd made himself indispensable to Section by doing everything right and anticipating what was expected of him above and beyond the mission. He'd proven his loyalty repeatedly, and he never dropped his guard. And, unbeknownst to anyone, he'd learned about the weaknesses of his superiors, through the contacts he'd made when he'd first been recruited in Section. 

He'd befriended people in all aspects of Section activity because he'd recognized early on that he'd need friends who could be useful to him later. Nikita always thought that the people he knew, he knew for a specific reason, and he hadn't corrected her on her perception, although it was partially wrong. He truly cared for Walter and Birkhoff, and some of the other operatives he'd gotten to know in his life with Section. He'd been devastated to see Chuck get killed in an explosion - only hours earlier, they'd joked back and forth about the length of Michael's hair, and it had only affirmed his affection for the man. Watching him disappear from the vid-screen in an inferno had torn at Michael more than he would let Nikita see. He knew it had ravaged her, too. She hadn't been able to let her tears come - too many eyes and ears would have witnessed it. He'd wanted to go to her and hold her until her tears were gone, but Section life didn't allow for tenderness and compassion. He could understand, and even gain a measure of satisfaction from, Nikita's actions when she killed Wicke, the bloodless man responsible for the death of her friend. 

Now, Michael wondered how Nikita dealt with her grief. Did she sob herself into sleep? Did she push her body to extremes when she worked out? Did she drink too much in an effort to drown the thoughts and the pain? Since she'd marched into the middle of a briefing and dumped the surveillance cameras on the table in front of an astonished Operations, Michael had no idea what her hours away from Section were like anymore. 

He thought back to that briefing and a slight smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. No one else he knew would have possessed the nerve or spirit necessary to carry off a move so blatantly rebellious. Michael could still see Mad'laine's expression - amusement, admiration, even respect flickered across her face. Michael had kept his eyes level, his countenance neutral. But inside, he'd been equal parts fearful for her and fiercely proud of her. She'd refused to be intimidated by Operations' barely contained rage, and to Michael's astonishment, he'd finally been forced to back down, almost to his own chagrin. Michael hadn't expected surveillance to be lifted, and was a touch surprised, and relieved, when Operations gave him the order. 

Now, though, he almost wished there was a camera in her apartment - he was frustratingly uninformed about her emotional status. She was getting better at hiding her emotions, with our without the aid of her sunglasses. She still couldn't lie to him, but she could remain silent, which was more effective than a lie. Michael wished he could get Nikita alone, away from the omnipresent eyes and ears of Section, and strip away the lies and deceptions. 

In the next moment, he softly snorted, cynicism in his eyes. She would never trust him to that degree, no matter what words he used. Section had pulled his strings enough, and he'd let them, so that she viewed him as the enemy. He wondered if she knew, if she'd ever given any thought to how many times he'd intervened for her, how many times he'd risked everything, how many times he'd willingly offered his life in exchange for hers. He had never told her, mostly because he knew she would not have believed him, but also because he didn't want to sound like a martyr. He'd never once sacrificed for her with the intention of using the act against her later. It had always been out of whatever was in his heart for her. 

Which brought up another mystery - what was it he felt for her? It couldn't possibly have been love, he reasoned, because that emotion had died a long time ago for him. It might have been lust, although coupled with something deeper than just a surface attraction. He'd slept with several women, all in the line of duty. But he hadn't truly made love with anyone since Simone. And he knew that if he told Nikita that, she would, of course, not believe him. 

Michael rubbed his eyes again, feeling so exhausted and numb that he was alarmed when he realized he was on the verge of collapse. It hadn't been one particular incident, but more the cumulative effect of all of them, added to his constant emotional trauma. If someone had tried to hypnotize him, Michael's subconscious would have horrified him or her - he doubted that even Mad'laine would have been able to handle the darkness... 

************ 

It was full daylight now, and Michael sighed heavily. He felt weighed down, as if he were being dragged underwater. The sunrise had buoyed his heart briefly, but his initial sorrow soon returned, as it always did. It had been years since he'd had a flying dream, and he longed to experience just one more before he lost his life. More than that, he longed to hold Nikita in his arms and whisper all the things he could never tell her aloud, to feel her relaxed and trusting in his embrace while he shared everything he could possibly remember about his life before, during and after Section. 

It was foolish to wish for things that he could never have, Michael knew. It would only set him up for disappointment - for one more sorrow to add to the growing collection of sorrows he had in his heart. Hs carnival of souls was fast becoming as extensive as his mental list of people he'd killed since coming to Section. 

He took a shower, dressed, and found his keys. With another sigh, he raked a hand through his still-damp hair, grabbed his coat, and exited his apartment, making certain the door was locked. As he got into his car, checking all around in an unconscious action that was second nature to every operative, he resisted the urge to head in the opposite direction while tossing his cell-phone out the window. 

At Section headquarters, he sat in the briefing room alone, his thoughts of missions light-years away. He wondered if he had the strength of will to allow himself to get killed on a mission, just to end the sorrow. He wondered if he could put aside his concern for Nikita in favor of sweet, permanent oblivion. He wondered if Nikita would weep for him if he were to die... 

A sound from the doorway startled him from his thoughts, and he was both glad and sorry that it was Nikita. "Hi, Michael," she said softly, and he couldn't meet her eyes for a moment, still clinging to his pensive meditation. 

"Hello," he said, equally softly. His heart was breaking a little at the sound of her voice, and he ached to tell her, but he couldn't. When he looked at her, he saw an expression in her Prussian-blue eyes that alarmed him - she was staring into his eyes intently, her brow creased in concern, and it was as if she had seen inside him. 

"Michael, what's wrong?" she asked. 

Immediately, he answered, "Nothing." *A lie,* he thought. *The first thing I do every morning is lie to Nikita.* In remorse, he said quickly, before he thought too much, "No, that's not true. There is something wrong." 

Nikita was stunned - he'd never opened up to her in such a way before. She'd expected his flat response of "Nothing" - it was the way he always answered her whenever she asked if something was wrong. She didn't know it had been what he'd seen in her eyes that had made him recant. The air in the room seemed heavy with something portentious. Nikita didn't know what it was, but she sensed that somehow today was going to be a day of discovery and possibly even monumental change. She just didn't know how it would take place. 

~~~~~~ 

The briefing began, and as Michael absorbed the data, he didn't look at Nikita. Mad'laine noticed his behavior, but for once, she was at a loss as to what was going on in his head. He was completely closed off to her, more so than ever. She glanced at Nikita, and saw something similar. A strange, unreadable look, and more than the usual attentiveness to the mission parameters. Mad'laine made a mental note to check into their profiles again, to look for anything that might have happened on recent missions to cause this unnerving shutout. 

On the six-hour flight to their destination, Nikita became aware of Michael watching her closely. Before, she would have ignored him and grabbed a few minutes or hours of precious sleep. Now, though, she sensed something different about him and about herself, and she got up from her seat and went over to him. 

Michael watched her approach him and he welcomed her company, even as he dreaded the questions he knew were on her mind. She sat down almost discreetly across from him and began softly, "Michael, you told me earlier that something was wrong..." 

"Please, Nikita," he interrupted, "not now. This mission is too important. We can't be emotionally distracted." 

Nikita was silent for a moment, and Michael stoically, silently braced himself for the inevitable confrontation. He was surprised and grateful when she stared at him strangely - her eyes a color he'd never seen before, a color that excited and frightened him at the same time - then demurred quietly, "I understand." Even softer, "Try to get some sleep, Michael. I'll guard your dreams." 

She'd meant it as a gentle teasing comment - she wasn't expecting his reaction, which was to stare into her eyes, his own eyes celadon-green and shiny with tears and whisper, "Thank you, Nikita." His eyes slowly closed, and in moments he was completely unconscious. Nikita stayed close to him, keeping true to her promise to guard his dreams. She wasn't sure what tender emotion held her there, unless it was because he'd shown her more of himself in the past eight hours than he had in the three years since she'd come to Section. She wondered why he was allowing himself to be vulnerable. She considered several possibilities - it was part of the "hidden agenda" Michael always seemed to have on missions, courtesy of Operations and/or Mad'laine; it was his exhaustion catching up with him; it was a direct command from one of the powers that be... 

She gave up trying to rationalize it. Doing so only made her cross and frustrated, and Michael was right - they couldn't be emotionally distracted on this mission. She turned half an ear to the conversations of the other operatives, caught bits and pieces of casual chat, discussions of the mission parameters, comments about Walter's latest explosives and weapons. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a typical flight to a very un-typical, potentially life-threatening situation. Nikita sighed silently, closing her eyes, and soon she was asleep, only lightly. She took her guardianship of Michael seriously, and she could still hear sounds around her as she dozed. 

She wasn't certain what woke her up at first - she'd thought it was a nightmare, an echo of a scream heard only in her own head. Then, coming completely awake instantly, she realized it hadn't even been a scream - it had only been a soft, almost inaudible cry from Michael as he slept. She squinted at him intently and saw his face tormented, his mouth turned down. His jaws were obviously clenched. What moved Nikita to his side was not his expression, but the tears coursing down his cheeks. She hurriedly glanced around, not wanting anyone else to see his vulnerability. Satisfied that no one was watching, she opted instead to kneel in front of him, with the pretext of consulting him on details of the mission. She touched his face very lightly, hesitantly, whispering almost fearfully, "Michael?" 

He didn't wake up - didn't even stir, except to flinch slightly, a troubled crease crossing his brow, and Nikita became worried. His reflexes were usually lightning-fast - in other circumstances her touch might have resulted in a death-blow to her face before she could have recoiled had he not come completely awake and recognized her before his preservation instinct took over. 

In desperation she risked sudden death, gripped his arm and shook him gently, her voice a little more urgent. "Michael, wake up - we're almost there." 

Nikita's voice cut through to him; he came instantly and startlingly alive, gripping her forearm painfully hard before he knew it was she. When his instinct kicked in and he recognized her face a second later his expression gentled and he relaxed his hold, praying he hadn't broken her wrist. He hadn't known he'd been so exposed to her gaze earlier, and she wouldn't tell him yet. She treasured the intimate glimpse into his troubled psyche, and it gave her an insight she hadn't possessed earlier. She hid her pain from him - he wouldn't want to know he'd wounded her before a mission because of his vulnerability - he would have punished himself for it, she knew. 

She softly said, "You must have needed the sleep - you were in a state of oblivion I wish I could find!" She smiled then, not even asking about what he'd been dreaming because she knew he wouldn't tell her - he never told her anything about himself, unless it fit in with the mission profile. 

To her surprise, Michael glanced around at the other operatives who were still either dozing or conversing, and whispered, "Nikita, when this is over, I need to talk to you alone. Away from Section - away from anything either of us knows. Neutral ground." 

Nikita stared hard into his eyes - she saw, not green ice, but something melting, something crying out, and she nodded, almost as an afterthought. "Okay," she whispered back. Then, she couldn't help herself - she asked, "Michael, are we all right? Operations isn't playing Machiavelli again, is he?" 

Michael, caught off-guard by her unorthodox question, gave a short, sharp bark of laughter and in that second he ached to pull her into his arms and shock her with a kiss deep enough to drag the breath from her lungs. Instead, he smiled, a genuine, honest smile and said, "No, Nikita. It's not about Operations, or the mission. We'll be fine." 

With his last three words, Michael felt as if a huge burden had been lifted off his shoulders, and he was almost euphoric as he realized that perhaps for the first time in years, his words to Nikita were true... 

************ 

The bar was dimly lit and pervaded with smoke. The background music was vapid top-40 in English, which Michael detested. He gritted his teeth and dealt with it, focusing on his target. Nikita was guarding the north entrance, standing at the bar and pretending to be someone's date who was about to be stood up. She was dressed in a dark, iridescent blue velvet dress with spaghetti straps. The sheath hugged her body gently, not too suggestively, and the hemline was below mid-calf length. Mad'laine had been considerate in her wardrobe choices this time, allowing Nikita comfort as well as style. She was covered, in more ways than one. Michael fought hard to keep his emotions in check as he watched a strange man hit on Nikita, putting his hands where they had no right to be. He knew Nikita could put the guy's lights out unobtrusively in a heartbeat if she chose to do so, and he watched her with equal parts dread and expectation, even as he glanced around briefly and sighted their man. He turned away and softly uttered into his com-unit, "Nikita, I have him in sight - south exit. Brown hair, black jacket. Meet me there - we'll take him quietly." 

Nikita gently but firmly took her lecherous would-be suitor's hands off her body, looked him in the eye with a flinty glare and said softly, "I have to go now. If you follow me, I'll have to kill you." 

Something in her tone of voice and the look in her eyes convinced the man she was at least partially serious. He nodded quickly, removing his hands completely and stepping back from her as she grabbed her cape and left the bar with an air of absolute confidence and authority. The man quickly ordered another drink and immersed himself in it... 

She joined Michael at the south exit, and between the two of them, they "escorted" their target outside where the van was waiting. The mark didn't fight - he was a passive player in the latest Section game, and neither Nikita nor Michael expected him to be aggressive, according to the mission profile. Michael thought pensively that it was almost as if Mad'laine, or Operations, was throwing him against Nikita in a relatively safe situation to see how they would react together. 

The rest of the evening belonged to them - the interrogation would wait until morning. After that, if everything went well, their bird would fly, leading them to the next contact in the chain. 

Michael retired to his room alone and lay awake, thinking about everything he'd said to Nikita, everything he'd done in the course of this mission. He knew he'd been out of character - he'd slept through a crucial period on the plane. He should have been going over the parameters with the other operatives but he'd been completely unconscious. And he'd known innately that Nikita would cover him, even before she'd said, "I'll guard your dreams." Her statement had made him shiver inside, and he hoped she hadn't seen his body's reaction. He'd trusted her so implicitly that he'd gone under almost immediately after her words, knowing she would not allow anything to happen to him. She was the only one he truly trusted completely. He trusted Walter and Birkhoff, somewhat, but he knew they would perform in accord with Section's instructions if the situation arose. 

Nikita was different - she never failed to question motives and agendas. He knew this inherent rebelliousness was what drove Operations to something close to tantrums and Mad'laine to distraction. They were accustomed to getting exactly what they required, and to encounter someone who inadvertently made them re-think their parameters and their methods caused them to have to face their own humanity. It was unnerving for them, and unsettling. Neither of them wanted to deal with the emotional, human aspects of their personalities - Nikita was a constant reminder to each of them that they were, afterall, imperfect humans with bananas for backbones. 

Mad'laine spent a lot of time trying to suppress the grudgingly admiring smile that flickered across her face everytime she was forced to discipline or counsel Nikita. The intense fight for freedom that Nikita demonstrated unwaveringly, no matter the situation, amused her. It both frustrated and exhilarated her - the words Mad'laine delivered to Nikita were not always the ones she knew she should say, but Nikita had a way of toppling her sensibilities and making her view things from a more innocent perspective. She appreciated that, although she would never share that information with anyone. She was in a position where few people questioned her decisions and statements, and she was grateful for it - she'd worked hard to attain that semblance of privacy and authority and she didn't plan to let anyone usurp it. 

Michael let a small smile cross his face as he thought about how innocently Nikita could stir up major conflagrations within Section, just because she was the way she was. Then he thought forward to the impending questioning of their mark in the morning. He almost wished he didn't have to squeeze the guy for information - in every "good-cop bad-cop" scenario, he played the bad cop. He knew it was because he was skilled at it and had the resolve necessary to carry out a threat without hesitation. He also knew that if he failed, Nikita would most likely pay for his mistake with her own life. Michael hated the way Operations used Nikita as leverage to keep him obedient. Hated it because he was weak enough to allow it. He knew he couldn't willfully disobey Section - he couldn't risk Nikita, especially since she knew nothing of his tenuous agreement with Operations. 

He could still hear his voice - "If she fails, you fail." It had been over before Michael had had a chance to protest. Not that he would have said anything, but to have that luxury taken away from him still rankled him. He tried to understand the love-hate relationship he had with the man, and he was forced, grudgingly, to respect him. The decisions he made on a daily basis would have been enough to drive Michael to suicide had he been Operations. Then again, Operations probably would never survive the day to day field action of a cold operative. For one thing, he chain-smoked. Michael caught himself hoping that someday, Operations would simply cave in to a heart attack and be out of commission. Except that his replacement would most likely be ten times worse. 

Michael's thoughts had begun to turn inward when he heard a knock on his door. Naked, he was on his feet instantly, pulling his robe around him quickly and taking his gun from under the pillow. He moved silently to the entryway, ready to take action. A soft voice came through the door, "Michael?" 

It was Nikita. Michael froze for a second, his mind a blank. She'd never come to him in the night before and now he found himself in a situation in which he'd never been. He wondered if everything was all right... 

He quietly opened the door, his eyes like lasers locking, burning into her. He stepped aside, allowing her to enter, noticing that she wore only a dark blue silk sleepshirt that hit to mid-thigh. She was barefoot, her hair loose and a little tousled, as if she'd tried to sleep and hadn't succeeded. He closed the door behind her and locked it, not to keep her in, but to keep possible intruders out. The he asked, a little huskily, "Is something wrong, Nikita?" 

She seemed hesitant to speak - finally, she said, "Michael, I haven't been able to stop worrying about you. You aren't acting like yourself at all. You're scaring me, and I need to know if the mission's at risk." 

Michael sat down on the edge of his bed and stared past her, a touch uneasily. She was venturing into dangerous territory by trying to pin him down about his feelings. He said softly, "I'm just tired, Nikita." 

"So am I," she retorted. "That's not gonna work. You said earlier that something was wrong. I wanna know what you meant." 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was more tired now than he'd been before she came in, but he knew she wouldn't let it go. He tried one more time. "We both need to get some sleep. There's a lot to do tomorrow." 

Nikita didn't move. Her eyes locked onto his and he found he couldn't look away from her. Finally, he whispered, "You always know, don't you?" At her bewildered frown, he went on. "You look so deeply into me, you see things I don't even know are there." He paused; almost absently, as if he'd forgotten her presence entirely he uttered, "You once said you didn't know me at all. But you know me better than Mad'laine ever will..." 

He was shoved back into the past for that moment - he didn't tell her that her starkly honest comment, spoken after she'd questioned his motives concerning a recruit, had hurt him so profoundly he had almost lost control of his control. Always, he'd done the best he could to give himself to her within the constraints of Section law, and to hear her say she didn't know him at all had made him realize all his efforts had been in vain. He'd quietly sacrificed so much for her, and she hadn't recognized any of it, or if she had, she was keeping that knowledge hidden from him... 

His words stunned Nikita. She hadn't realized she unnerved him so much - she'd thought nothing could shake him. Now, in the dead of the night he was confessing things she'd never dreamed he felt. She remained silent, wanting him to go on. She stood up and walked slowly toward her, his eyes never leaving hers, and she fought the impulse to step back in self-defense. She couldn't read his expression - she had no idea what his intentions were. The fact that he was clad only in a black silk robe, falling open almost to his waist, unnerved her even more. She hadn't noticed how lean and strong he was before - she hadn't allowed herself to take such a risk. It had been difficult enough for her to keep her eyes from wandering over his body when they were on missions together. 

Nikita knew, deep down, that to cave in to her guilty desire to know Michael better would be to set herself up for heartbreak. She knew he would never betray her as far as keeping her alive. But for someone who'd been married and completely, unequivocally in love with and devoted to one woman, Michael appeared almost absurdly innocent in affairs of the heart. He couldn't seem to see how he hurt her everytime he used her to complete a mission for an organization that cared nothing for him as a person. If he did see it, he masked it well... 

He reached out and gently took her shoulders. "When I told you something was wrong, I didn't mean to worry you. I only meant that I had a lot on my mind. It...isn't easy for me to tell you certain things..." He began to feel sorry he'd ever started talking - now he was committed, and all he wanted was to sleep. Even his nightmares would be preferable, he thought, to spilling his reflections to Nikita and giving her leverage over him. But he'd begun the thing, and he didn't really want to stop now. It could possibly be the last time he ever let Nikita into his private space, and the more he could share with her before he closed up, the better he'd feel about the future, whatever happened between them. 

She was staring at him almost expectantly, as if waiting for him to suddenly burst into flame. He went on softly, "Everytime you ask me what's wrong, I tell you 'nothing', but most of the time, it's a lie. Everytime you ask me how I am, I tell you 'fine'. I realized that the first thing I do almost every morning after I've greeted you is lie to you." 

Nikita's eyes opened a little wider at this unexpected confession. She realized that his thumbs were idly caressing her upper arms as he held them - he didn't seem aware he was doing it, or that he'd taken an almost imperceptible step closer to her. She remembered the feeling of change in the air the previous morning, and she knew this was all a part of that feeling. Michael vulnerable, verbal, affectionate, open - she wanted to believe this wasn't really Michael at all; that it was some other person cleverly disguised. But those eyes - no one else in the world had eyes like Michael's... Nikita tried to stay distant and objective, but it was becoming more difficult. 

"And you apologize for every lie," she said very softly, not certain whether she was trying to diminish his guilt or add to it. She saw his gaze waver for a moment, shimmering like an emerald fish surfacing briefly then disappearing underwater. 

He whispered, almost miserably, "I don't know what else I can do." His eyes left hers finally, and he looked away and down, remorsefully. 

Nikita reached up and took his hands from her arms, clasping them - they were cold in her warm ones, and it alarmed her for a moment. "You could tell me the truth," she said. "You could let me in." 

Michael met her stare again, wishing it could be as easy as she made it seem. "Nikita," he began, but she silenced him with a small shake of her head. 

"Don't," she said. "I know you can't. I know you have to lie to me to keep me alive sometimes. It hurts me, but it has to hurt you, too. As long as I know you feel something when you hurt me, I can live with the pain." 

Michael wanted to cry for her, and for himself. Every day, he saw a little bit more of the man he'd thought was gone forever being revealed like a shy ray of sunlight appearing briefly from behind clouds for a moment. He hoped Nikita could see it as clearly - it would help her, he believed, to know she was touching him in a way he could never show her outwardly. 

He was startled and surprised when she leaned forward and timidly pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. His heart skipped a beat and his eyes closed for a moment while he savored the almost painful sweetness of her touch. When she slowly drew back from him, he felt another pain - that of disappointment and a sense of loss. Without giving himself time to think, he pulled her close again and this time, the surprise was hers. He kissed her very tenderly, almost carefully, fully expecting her to jerk away from him in outrage or complete mistrust and wipe her hand across her mouth in astonishment. When she didn't, he took a chance and released her hands to slide his arms around her, still kissing her. He felt her mouth yield against his and he opened his eyes to slits to see if she was as abandoned to emotion as he was. Her eyes were closed, she seemed relaxed, and he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, barely, testing her response to him. 

She couldn't possibly have felt his heart pounding as if unanchored behind his ribs - yet she reached up between them and pressed her palm against his bare chest, near his heart. He caught his breath inaudibly as a fire shot through him from the point of contact straight to his groin. He closed his eyes then, knowing he should stop what was happening between them; knowing it would complicate not only the present mission but their future lives; knowing it put them both in a dangerous situation should Section find out they were becoming more intimate... He knew all of it, but Nikita's soft hands on his skin, her lips warm and ready on his mouth, his aching, bone-deep need for her closeness - everything together worked against him until finally, with a faint sigh of something like relief, he gave up the fight. 

A soft groan escaped him, and the sound sparked something inside Nikita as she sensed Michael's capitulation and relaxed into his arms. If Michael had some kind of hidden end-game, she didn't care. She'd come to him - he hadn't seduced her this time. In fact, he'd been reluctant to let go of his self-control, although Nikita believed that he smoldered for affection and tenderness from someone. There had been times when she'd thought he hated her - those icy green eyes, when they turned on her in anger, were enough to make her want to slither out of the room. He frightened her more than she would ever admit to him. She forced herself to stand up to him time and time again, partly to keep her inner strength intact, and partly to prove herself to him. 

Now, though, it was as if nothing else existed except the two of them. Nikita couldn't believe she was standing in the secure strength of Michael's arms while he slowly slid his hands up her back, over the nightshirt. He whispered, his voice husky, "Everything about you makes me burn..." 

Nikita sighed, surrendering to Michael's hands, lips, and body. He smelled like a forest after the rain - she inhaled his fragrance as his lips slid from her mouth to her jawline, then down to her throat. Her breath left her body then and she felt like she was flying. His arms tightened around her and his wet kisses traveled back up to her lips. He whispered against her mouth, "Tell me what you want..." 

She responded by gently biting his bottom lip, then licking it softly to heal it. "I want you to do whatever you want," she breathed, her eyes glittering slits in the near-darkness of the room. Her hands were caressing his chest, untying the belt of his robe and sliding it off his shoulders. It slithered down his back and landed in a soft heap on the floor. Michael felt every sensation as if he were high on cocaine - but this high was much more powerful because it was caused by desire held in check for years. 

He slid his hands up under the nightshirt, skimming it off over her head, then lifted Nikita in his arms - she weighed surprisingly little for her height, and Michael was amazed he had never noticed how small her bones were. She'd always seemed so strong and confident that he'd assumed she was bulkier than she was. In wry amusement, even as his desire escalated, Michael knew he'd have to be more observant in the future, lest some other important details about Nikita flew under his radar. 

He lowered her onto the bed and joined her there, pulling the blankets over them both, his eyes never leaving her, although he wanted to take in every detail of her lithe body. He wanted nothing more in life than to cover her with his own body and use up the rest of the night in pure pleasure, but he couldn't be selfish, this time. He knew he would have been all right, but Nikita tended to become listless when she didn't have adequate sleep, and she'd been on several missions back-to-back. She was no doubt exhausted. 

Michael forced himself to draw back from her, an apology forming on his lips. "Nikita," he whispered, "now isn't a good time..." 

Her eyes were wide and hurt - she sensed betrayal and tried to break from his arms, but he held her securely and spoke aloud, although softly. "Listen to me," he commanded, "we both know this can't happen. We have to be ready for the interrogation and the next level of the mission. Neither of us can afford to lose any more sleep. I know you're exhausted - it shows in your eyes." Then, more tenderly as he felt her begin to relax a little, he said, "Nikita, if you knew how difficult it is for me to keep my distance from you, it would scare you to death..." 

"Tell me," she whispered. "Please, Michael - I think... I need to hear it..." 

Michael closed his eyes, held her close, clamped down on his rising desire and said, "Most of the time, I can bury you in my work. And at night, the dreams aren't of you, however much I wish they could be. But on missions where we have to work closely, I smell your hair and look into your eyes, and I can't-" He broke off, not wanting her to know this intimate detail about himself but knowing he couldn't keep it from her any longer. They were naked in each other's arms, poised on the edge of pure gem-cut passion and Michael could think of no way to backpedal now. He finished, blatantly, "-I can't help imagining you soft and warm in my arms, wrapped in desire - and now we're there..." 

Nikita was mute, overcome by emotion. She felt herself blushing furiously, and was grateful he couldn't see her color in the night. She braved his dark cravings and put her hand on his chest, feeling the trip-hammer beat of his heart. She heard him suck in a breath quietly between clenched teeth and she longed to throw sensibility away and do everything possible to unhinge his body and mind and bring him to a release he'd never felt before. 

Instead, she whispered, "Sometimes I dream about you... When I was being tortured by Legion, I kept your face in my mind and somehow, the electroshock didn't feel as bad. I tried to imagine what you would do in my place..." 

"Please, Nikita," Michael begged her softly. He'd rescued her before the second Legion member could put a bullet through her heart, but he'd seen the bruises on her abdomen and ribs from the paddles; he'd almost felt her agony and the sorrow of the betrayal at the hands of someone who looked exactly like Nikita's trusted friend. He'd known how weak and exhausted Nikita was, and he'd wanted to hold her in his arms forever, Section or no Section. But he'd done the procedurally correct thing, hoping that his tenderness would somehow translate itself into her weary, battered body and let her know how much he cared for her... 

"I wanted to make you proud of me," Nikita continued, not allowing him to stop her confession. "It's what kept me from cracking when Red Cell tortured me. It was you that made me break. I can handle anything except your pain and Section knew that - you knew it, and I know it's why you were sent in. I think I knew it before you ever told me. But it doesn't matter now. I know my weakness, and it'll always be you, no matter how I fight it. Michael, I know we aren't supposed to show our feelings. But it's too late now. We're together and even if we aren't locked in each other's arms physically, we both know that we are, in our hearts. The rest is just logistics." 

Nikita left his arms then, and Michael let her go. He heard the soft rustle of silk as she pulled her nightshirt back on. He saw her silhouette against the dim light of the hallway as she opened his door. Her voice came to him as a whisper. "I'm still guarding your dreams, Michael..." And she slipped away.


End file.
